


you were an angel in the shape of my mum

by suchalongwaydown



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Acceptance, Anger, Character Death, Depression, Drinking, Ghosts, Grieving, Hallucinations, Harry helps, Harry is endeared, Hope, I'm Sorry, M/M, Meltdown, Rainy Days, Sad Louis, This is also my first fic, blame her, blame her for that too, breaking stuff, but we knew that, fucking sad, grieving process, this is bri's fault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 07:52:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17076344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suchalongwaydown/pseuds/suchalongwaydown
Summary: It's called the grieving process for a reason. You can't expect to rush through it within a few hours, days, or just a week. A process is a process, it's minutes and hours and days of strength and perseverance. Things don't get better instantaneously. You deny, you get angry, you bargain, you break, you accept. The beginning feels a lot like drowning, but you'll be above water eventually.or, alternatively, louis denies, louis gets angry, louis bargains, louis breaks, louis accepts.





	you were an angel in the shape of my mum

**Author's Note:**

> This is dedicated to one of my best friends. She helped with a lot of the ideas for this and she was basically the whole inspiration. Go give her some love on Twitter @ursincerelylwt <3
> 
> Enjoy the heartbreak, I'm sorry. 
> 
> This is for anyone that needs it. It gets better, I promise.

**“A ghost can be a lot of things. A memory, a daydream, a secret. Grief, anger, guilt. But, in my experience, most times they’re just what we want to see.”**

The phone rings, and Louis glances at the unfamiliar number before answering it.

“Hello, is this Mr. Louis Tomlinson?” the voice on the line asks. Louis swallows a lump in his throat before responding.

“Yes, this is Louis. What’s wrong?” he asks worriedly. He doesn’t hear the man introduce himself and he doesn’t hear him announce what hospital he’s at. All he hears are those words, the words that echo around in his head as he tries to grasp them and form them into complete thoughts. The color in his face drains and he feels numb.

_Your mom was in an accident, Louis. She didn’t make it._

He squeezes his eyes shut and takes in a deep breath.

“What happened?” he asks quietly. He steels himself as the answer comes through.

“She was in a really bad car accident, Louis. She was announced dead at the scene. There was nothing that could be done. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Louis sucks in a sharp breath and releases it. He closes his eyes, willing himself not to cry.

“Okay,” he finally replies. “Is there anything else I need to know? Is there anything I need to do?”

“No, sir. We’ve contacted other family members that will take care of the details.”

“Okay,” he repeats. “Thank you for calling.”

Before the man can respond he’s hung up. He stares at his phone on the kitchen counter, debating. He hesitates, then shuts it off before he can convince himself otherwise and sets it down a bit too forcefully on the counter.

He starts questioning everything. He doesn’t believe it. She can’t be gone, she was just here. He just talked to her a couple days ago. She’s not gone, she can’t be gone, she’s not gone. He tries to convince himself that it’s not true. He rakes his fingers through his hair mindlessly, and it’s like a switch is flipped in his brain.

He needs to forget. He raids his kitchen, searching for any kind of alcohol, anything to make him forget, anything to convince him that he’s right. He finds relief in the cabinet next to his fridge. He sorts through the bottles of wine, looking for the stronger stuff at the back. He pulls out a bottle of whiskey and a bottle of tequila. He then rummages through his fridge, producing a few bottles of beer, and he carries everything to his living room. He collapses on his couch, setting the bottles down on the coffee table. He’s already tired, his body already aches, but his mind is alert. He can’t have that.

Though he knows he shouldn’t, knows it’s dangerous, knows he’ll wake up regretting it anyway, he downs the first beer just like that. And then the next right after. He’s crying by now, but he can’t feel it. He shifts to the tequila, taking a swig and wincing. He switches between the tequila, whiskey, and beer over and over again. He drinks until he can’t even remember who he is, much less the devastating news he received just a few hours ago. He struggles to keep his eyes open, glancing blearily around the room. Something catches his eye. He squints, and there she is.

“Mum!” he shouts, struggling to stand up from the floor. He stumbles toward her, calling out for her. But when he reaches her, she’s disappeared. He looks around wildly, eyes searching for her, but she’s gone. The tears come again, and he’s soon collapsed back on the floor, sobbing into the carpet. Sleep takes him quickly.

The next morning is anything but pleasant. Louis wakes up laying on the floor in his living room with wet cheeks and a tear-stained carpet. He wipes at his cheeks and moves to get up, but the pounding in his head forces him back down. He squeezes his eyes shut. He tries to remember how he got here, but the only thing he can think of is the unknown number and the sad news. What was the sad news? Why was he crying? He sees the excessive amount of alcohol. Why did he drink so much? He rarely drinks alone, much less so much. His thoughts go back to the phone conversation. The man said he was sorry for his loss. What did he lose?

Then, it hits him. All at once. He’s the deer and the night before is the car barreling down the road, not a care in the world.

His head is pounding, and his body aches, and his heart is broken, and then he’s puking all over his carpet and himself. He groans, closing his eyes, and he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He tries to stand, but he’s hit with another wave of puke. He grasps his stomach and cries out in pain. He stumbles to the bathroom and slumps down next to the toilet. He empties his stomach, takes a half-assed shower, and collapses in his bed. He tells himself he’ll clean the living room later.

This routine continues for days. He doesn’t talk to anyone, dodges calls, leaves texts unopened and unread. He drinks too much at night and regrets it in the morning. Every night he sees his mom, and every night he reaches for her only to find emptiness in her place.

The night before the funeral, he composes himself. He’s out of alcohol anyway. He makes himself clean his mess, and he takes a long shower. He cries the whole time. He’s still convinced that she’s not gone. He still doesn’t answer anyone, only texts his sister what time he’ll get there the next day. He doesn’t read her response.

The whole half hour drive to the funeral, he tries to get all his tears out, he doesn’t want to cry in front of his sisters. Lottie called him that morning and told him that he was supposed to speak. He agreed easily, but now he doesn’t think he can get through it without breaking down. He hopes he can manage.

When he pulls into the parking lot, he sits in his car for a few extra minutes. He runs his fingers through his hair a little more, it needs to be perfect. He straightens his suit jacket, and takes a deep breath. He assures that there’s no evidence that he cried the way here, and gets out. He locks the car doors, and heads for the church. He greets family and friends standing outside, and he gives hugs and kisses to his sisters. He apologizes for disappearing for a week, and thanks his grandparents for taking care of the girls. Finally, he pulls his oldest sister, Lottie, to the side.

“I may not be able to make it through my speech, Lots,” he says quietly so no one around them can hear. “I- I hate to ask this, but-”

“If I see that you’re struggling, I’ll step in. Don’t worry about it, Lou,” she cuts him off. “I know this has been really hard on you, and I’m sorry for springing the whole thing on you this morning out of nowhere-”

“No, that was my fault. I didn’t respond for a week, that’s all on me.” He gives her a sad smile. “Thank you for taking over as the responsible older sibling. I haven’t been doing very good at that recently.”

“I’m just doing what I always do. I love you, Louis.”

“Love you too, Lots,” he squeezes her shoulder, and they move to sit on the front pew.

It opens with a sweet hymn sung by one of the girls in the children’s choir. Louis feels numb. He doesn’t even realize he’s supposed to be going up until Lottie nudges him. He walks up to the podium, wiping his sweaty hands on his pants. Lottie gives him a thumbs up from where she sits. He gives the smallest hint of a smile. He clears his throat.

“My mum was a beautiful person inside and out. She only ever had love for people. There wasn’t a bad bone in her body. She-” his voice cracks, and he closes his eyes. He coughs lightly and takes in a deep breath. “I love her so much. So, so much. She was so brave, so caring, she was so amazing with the girls when they were born. And I may have had to grow up a little early, fill in a missing role, but it never felt like that. She never-” he coughs again, “She never let me feel like that. She always made sure I felt loved and cared for too,” his voice cracks again, and he has to stop.

He can’t breathe, he needs to get out. His eyes are full of tears but he won’t let them spill over. Lottie notices, and like she said she would, she stands to finish his speech. He can’t hear her anymore, he can’t hear anything but his heavy footsteps on the ground as he walks outside. He feels numb, and when he finally reaches his car, his tears have fallen and his dress shirt is wet. He throws himself into his car, slamming the door a little too forcefully. His body is racking with his sobs. He bangs his fist against the steering wheel, and then again, and again. He fists his hair, his suit is wrinkled and wet, he shouldn’t drive like this. He mumbles angry words, but won’t say them too loud.

He calms himself down enough that he deems safe for him to drive home. He drives through his tears, and the building manager gives him a sad look when he walks into his building. He doesn’t change out of his suit when he throws himself onto his bed. He bangs his fists and kicks against his matress, screaming into his pillow. He falls asleep with his fists gripping the sheets.

Louis wakes up early and uncomfortable. He quickly strips off his suit and dress shoes. He lies on his back in his boxers, and lets the sound of the rain lull him back to sleep. He wakes up again a few hours later, tangled in his sheets. He stumbles off the bed and takes a shower, rinsing off the memories of the funeral. Trying to rid himself of the anger that’s bubbling inside him. He replies to Lottie’s text, tells her that he got home safe and he’s fine. He doesn’t think he’s really fine, but she doesn’t have to know that.

Louis spends the day watching cheesy romances on Netflix. The weather outside matches his mood. The rain pours down his window panes, and he can hear the slight roar of thunder in the distance. Once it’s dark, he turns the movies off. He stares out at the rain for a while, before standing up and walking into the kitchen, setting his dirty dishes in the sink. Something catches his eye on the counter, and he turns to see what it is.

Staring back at him is the bulletin from his mother’s funeral. He doesn’t remember bringing one home, but he doesn’t remember much of that day anyway. Again, the realization hits him all at once. She’s really gone. And he’s angry. How dare they take her from him? He wants to hit something, he wants to break something. He grabs his cup holder full of pens and slings them out against the wall. The noise they make as they hit in several different spots spurs him on. He throws his mail off the counter, and frisbees a brown banana across the room.

He suddenly doesn’t want to be in his apartment anymore. He needs to leave. He slams his door open and closes it harshly, not bothering to lock it. He storms down the hallway, and as soon as he’s out of the building, he lets the storm swallow him, and he runs.

The rain pelts down on top of him, soaking his tank top and jeans. He’s shivering and his tears are falling constantly, just like the rain. His chest is burning, aching for a good deep breath. It feels nearly impossible at this point, he feels so broken, so helpless, so useless. His throat is sore from screaming, cursing at the sky, cursing at whoever took her from him. He falls to his knees, letting out a broken sob. He can’t do this. He lets out every bad thought, every bad word, every curse, he yells it to the sky as if it would help in any way. As if anyone would listen to his pleas, his hurt, his pain.

“How could you do this to me? How could you take her from me? Give her back! Give her back, Goddamnit! Give her back!” He’s shaking, vocal chords rubbed raw from the words being ripped out of his chest. “She wasn’t yours to take! She wasn’t yours,” his voice weakens, and fades off. He hugs his legs to his chest and screams his cries into his hands. He feels a soft hand rubbing his back, and he slowly lifts his head. His screams have stopped, but his tears continue to stream down his face.

And she’s there. Rubbing his back, looking real and alive as ever. And he can feel her. He can feel her hand, and when he reaches out, he can touch her cheek. Another loud sob escapes as he asks quietly, “How could you leave me?”

And just as quick as she had appeared, she was gone. The storm is louder than he is now, but he’s not sure which storm is stronger, the one outside or the one blooming in his chest. The rain falls harder, and his sobs grow quieter.

“You do that often?” a voice asks, and Louis whips his head up, glaring at the stranger. “I usually run on sunny days, but everyone likes different things.”

The stranger walks toward him, removing his coat. Louis watches him and his voice cracks as he tries, “Look-” but the stranger interrupts him.

“Aren’t you cold? You’re soaking wet, here,” the man drapes his coat over Louis’ shaking shoulders, “there. Don’t want you to get sick.”

Louis just stares at him, and he can’t get his tears to stop dripping down his face. The man sits next to him in the muddy grass. Louis doesn’t acknowledge him.

“You know holding things in doesn’t help, right?” he says softly, and suddenly Louis’ angry again. He’s angry at this stranger that came out of nowhere, trying to tell him how to cope.

“I don’t need a lecture from a fucking stranger,” he spits, “this isn’t grief counseling, buddy. I’m doing just fine on my own, so you can take your fucking coat and leave, thanks.” But the stranger stays put, unphased.

“Yes, because sitting in the mud, crying and cursing God is exactly the way to go. You’re doing a fantastic job of working through your pain, maybe I should take tips from you,” he retorts, sarcasm dripping from his words. Louis wipes the back of his hand under his eyes, and lets the coat fall off his shoulders.

“I don’t need this,” he chuckles darkly, standing and wiping his hands on his wet jeans. He starts walking away, but the stranger’s voice stops him.

“It gets easier, you know?” he calls.

Louis doesn’t turn around, just wipes at his tears again and mutters, “Somehow I doubt that.”

On his trek home, Louis’ temper begins to rise again. By the time he’s back in his apartment, he’s fuming. He catches sight of the bulletin on the counter and he sees fire. He grabs it and rips it in half, littering the pieces on the floor. In his rage he grabs a dirty plate from the sink and smashes it on the ground, just to hear the angry noise it makes. It spurs him on, grabbing a mug and smashing it next to the plate, and next he adds a bowl to the mix.

A familiar voice stops him from tossing the next plate.

“Don’t break that, babe,” her voice rings in his ears, and he squeezes his eyes shut. It can’t be her. She’s gone, she left him, they took her from him. “You know you’ll regret it, you know this isn’t helping anything.”

“You don’t get an opinion on what helps and what doesn’t!” he blurts, turning around quickly and meeting gazes with his late mother, tears streaming down his red face. “You left me! This is your fault! Maybe I need to break things to feel better, that’s my choice, not yours!” He moves to smash the plate, but she grabs his wrist, and it’s the most surreal thing. He can feel her hand around his wrist. He squeezes his eyes shut and when he opens them again, she’s gone, only the ghost of her hand remains around his wrist. He smashes the plate in the place she was standing, and slumps to the floor, sobs wracking his body. He cries himself to sleep for the eighth night in a row.

Louis eventually gets tired of breaking stuff, but he’s out of alcohol and he doesn’t want to go grocery shopping and risk running into someone he knows, so he decides to go out to a bar. He wears a single hoodie and jeans, as he doesn’t plan on impressing anyone. He grabs his keys, locking the door on his way out. He walks to the nearest bar, only a few blocks down the street. He tells the bartender to start a tab, and he begins drinking.

He has a mix of drinks, from the ones that make him gag from the taste, to the ones that he could drink over and over again, they’re so sweet. He bumps into a solid figure on his way back to the bar. He glances up, instantly recognizing the man standing in front of him.

“Hey, I know you,” he drawls, losing his balance. The man catches him, letting out a small laugh.

“Yeah, it’s me, Harry. I don’t think we got to introducing ourselves, did we?” the man, Harry, replied. He leads Louis back to the bar, leaning him against the counter.

“I’m Louis,” he says, before turning around and waving over a bartender. The bartender looks at Louis, and then his gaze shifts to Harry.

He ignores Louis’ order and asks Harry, “You’re with him?” Harry nods. “He’s cut off. Almost threw up and nearly started a fight. Take him home or cool him down, either way he’s done tonight.”

Louis is not pleased with this turn of events, as he proceeds to open his mouth to argue with the bartender, but Harry pulls him away, mumbling a quick apology and guiding Louis toward the door.

“Let’s get you home, yeah?” Louis tries to resist, but he’s not making much progress. “Where do you live, Louis. Wanna make sure you get back safe.”

Louis gives up, pointing Harry the way to his apartment and slumping against him the whole walk home. Harry helps Louis unlock his door and as soon as Harry steps foot in the apartment, he notices all the broken glass and ceramics littering the floor.

“Jesus, Louis, what happened in here?” Harry asks, helping Louis step around the broken pieces.

“Mum was telling me to stop smashing things, but then she disappeared again and I threw another one,” Louis was mumbling. “I broke a lot of things.”

“You’re way too unstable right now to be out drinking,” Harry comments as he sees more and more of Louis’ destruction. Meanwhile, Louis struggles to walk down the hallway.

“The whole reason I’m drinking is because I’m unstable,” Louis says, a hint of indignance in his voice.

“Louis,” Harry drawls, back at his side helping him to the bathroom. “Drinking doesn’t take the pain away, it just numbs you for a while and then you wake up the next morning and feel like shit.”

“I already feel like shit,” he grumbles.

“You’ll feel even more like shit, and you’ll regret that you let yourself do it.”

“Look, I really don’t need a lecture from a stranger.” Louis stops walking and crosses his arms.

“Sorry, darling, you’re getting one anyway,” Harry says, and then Louis’ puking right outside the bathroom. Harry quickly helps him to the toilet, and rubs his back as he empties his stomach.

After Louis’ done, Harry makes him drink a glass of water and take an aspirin, before helping him out of his dirty clothes and into fresh, new ones. Harry practically carries Louis to bed and he’s out as soon as his head hits the pillow.

He goes back to the hallway and cleans up Louis’ mess. He then picks up all the broken glass and ceramic in the kitchen, and sweeps up the smaller pieces. He puts Louis’ dirty clothes in the washing machine, and ensures that Louis’ keys and phone are with him and that he didn’t leave them at the bar. Harry writes a note for Louis to find when he wakes up, and sets it next to the glass of water on Louis’ nightstand. Harry leaves quietly, locking the door as he goes.

When Louis wakes up the next morning, his head is pounding and he can barely open his eyes. He spots the glass of water on his nightstand and downs it all in one go, ignoring the fact that it’s warm. When he goes to put the glass down he sees a note. It then occurs to him that he can’t remember how he got home. He grabs the note and squints to make his eyes focus on the writing in his hazy state.

_This is Harry, I took you home last night. When you find this it should be the next day. Drink the water on your nightstand, and take the aspirin. You should feel good enough to get up and eat breakfast within an hour. I cleaned up your little accident and I swept the kitchen. Don’t break anything else, it’s dangerous to have sharp stuff like that all over the floor. You could hurt yourself. I’ve left my phone number at the bottom of the page. I want you to call me as soon as you finish reading this so I know that you’re safe and you’re okay._

Louis looks back at the nightstand and notices the aspirin. He swallows them quickly and rests his head back on his pillow, racking his brain for memories of the night before. They eventually come to him, and he remembers the boy with the green eyes and brown curls. He’d met him when he had his meltdown in the park a few weeks before.

He sits up and grabs the note again, reaching for his phone with the other hand. His head is still pounding, but the note said to call right away, and the guy had cleaned his mess, the least he could do was call and thank him.

The phone rang twice before someone picked up.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Harry? This is Louis,” his voice comes out scratchy, despite the water he’d just drank. He coughs a little.

“Louis,” Harry says. “How are you feeling?”

“Like shit.”

“I told you. Did you take the aspirin?”

“Yes.”

“And you drank the water?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I’m gonna-”

“Thank you.” Louis cuts him off. “For taking me home and making sure I was safe and stuff. I shouldn’t have gone out alone and gotten that drunk. It was stupid, and you called me out on it and lectured me. And thank you for cleaning up after me. You didn’t have to do that. You didn’t have to take care of me.”

“I couldn’t just leave you.”

“But you could’ve,” Louis says. “Thank you,” he pauses, composes himself, ”for not leaving me, I mean.”

“You’re welcome, Louis. I’m gonna call you every day from now on, okay? I wanna make sure you’re okay,” Harry says, and Louis knows he could protest but he wouldn’t win.

So, he settles for a simple, “Okay.”

“Bye, Louis. I hope you feel better.”

“Bye,” Louis mumbles and hangs up. He tosses his phone to the other side of the bed and falls back asleep.

Harry wasn’t kidding when he said he would call Louis every day to check in. Louis answers the first time, says he’s fine, and hangs up. He doesn’t answer after that. He thinks it’s excessive and unnecessary, and he doesn’t understand why Harry cares anyway. Louis doesn’t move much from his bed the next few days. He barely eats anything either.

On the fifth day, after Louis doesn’t answer Harry’s call, there’s a knock at the door. Louis doesn’t get up to answer it. The knock comes again, and then a message appears on Louis’ phone.

_Are you okay?_

Louis rolls his eyes and replies.

_I’m fine._

He assumes that’s the end of their exchange, before a link comes through on his phone. He hesitantly clicks on it, and it brings up an article about the grieving process. Louis groans, and says, loud enough to be heard outside, “I don’t need your help, I’m doing perfectly fine on my own.”

Louis turns his phone off and throws it to the end of his bed. He hears retreating footsteps in the hallway and has the slightest feeling of accomplishment. Louis closes his eyes to try to sleep, but he feels a hand on his knee. He slowly opens his eyes, and there she is.

“Read it, Lou,” he hears her say.

“I don’t need to, I’m fine,” he replies stubbornly. She sighs, and then the hand is gone and she is too. Louis throws his head back in frustration, tears welling up in his eyes. He cries himself back to sleep.

A few days later, he caves and reads the article. He doesn’t want to admit it, but it makes sense. The way it’s all grouped in steps, and he’s able to recognize what step he’s on. He makes himself get out of bed, and he takes a shower. He finds some scraps in the fridge to eat while he reads the article again.

He isn’t immediately better. He’s not instantly over it and able to move on. But he’s also not breaking stuff anymore, and he’s not staying in bed all day refusing to eat either. He’s in a sort of inbetween stage. Eventually, Louis wants to get out of his apartment.

He bundles up before leaving this time. He walks silently to the place he ran several weeks ago, hands tucked into his pockets, breaths puffing out into the cold air. It’s not quite dark outside yet, and he sees the empty park in the distance. Instead of collapsing in the field and having a meltdown, he walks to the edge of a small pond in the center of the park and sits down quietly on a large rock. Instead of cursing at the sky and screaming at his mother, he kicks at a pebble, bowing his head as he begins to talk softly.

“It’s been a really rough past few weeks, mum. I won’t lie. I-” he sniffles, wiping his quiet tears with his hand and tucking it back in his pocket. “I wanted to tell you, the first thing I wanted to say is, I wanted to say I’m sorry. I’m sorry for screaming at you, and trying to blame you, and yeah, I just. I just miss you so much. I love you so much and I miss you.” He feels a tear run slowly down his cold cheek. “And I know it was a bad way to cope, but at the time it felt like it was the only thing I could do. You were the only person I could blame. And I kept seeing you. And I, I feel less heavy now? Does that make sense? I don’t know I just kind of, I get it now. I get why they call it a process. Because you don’t, it’s not something you can get over in just a few hours or days. It’s, it’s a process and it’s hard but I think I’m finally at the end of it, mum. I think I’ve finally accepted it, I think I’ve finally accepted that you’re gone. I still love you, and I still miss you and I think I always will.” He sucks in a deep breath and wipes his eyes again, going quiet. He can hear the subtle breeze as it blows in the trees nearby.

He hears a leaf crunch on the ground behind him, and the smallest smile appears on his lips. He doesn’t turn when he speaks, just stares out at the water.

“You have a habit of stalking sad boys going through the grieving process or something?” he asks, and the boy behind him laughs. Harry appears beside him, taking a seat in the grass.

“Nah, just a habit of finding sad boys kind of endearing,” he says softly. Louis snorts, retort tumbling out of his mouth quickly.

“Yeah, totally, I’m your boy then.”

It goes quiet as they both look out at the water. They watch the ducks wading in the pond and the occasional frog that hops by. Eventually, Harry breaks the silence.

“So, you’re not cursing the sky today. What changed?” Louis thinks for a moment, and kicks another rock into the water.

Finally, he says, “When I woke up this morning, I could breathe. For the first time in a while, I didn’t feel like I was going to drown in my sadness and pain.”

Harry nods a little and turns to look at Louis. He sees his puffy red eyes and his messy hair and his unshaven face, and he nods again. He looks back out at the water before he says, “You’ll be above water eventually.”

So yeah, a ghost can be a lot of things, and most of the time they’re just what we want to see. Sometimes we don’t want to let go, and that’s okay. Because eventually, we’ll get there. At some point, our ghosts stop haunting us and we can let them go. And, eventually, they’ll let us go too.


End file.
